


Chocolate

by Jmeelee



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Blatant misuse of melted chocolate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 00:17:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: Normally, John is deathly allergic to this brand of hard labor: fourteen hours on his feet, fake smiles, balancing a dozen glasses of wine on a flimsy serving tray. The money is good, but that’s not what’s kept him waiting tables for six months.That would be James Flint, the pastry chef.And tonight?  John Silver has a good feeling about tonight.





	Chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> For my writing cheerleader Anon, who never fails to make me smile. This was originally posted to tumblr.

Friday is John Silver’s favorite day to work at  _ Max’s _ .  Chances are he won’t get off until after midnight, when the posh patrons have consumed their fill of cappuccinos and the ocean view, and stumble out of the fancy restaurant to continue their paradise vacations.  Normally, he’s deathly allergic to this brand of hard labor: fourteen hours on his feet, fake smiles, balancing a dozen glasses of wine on a flimsy serving tray. The money is good, but that’s not what’s kept him waiting tables here for six months. 

 

That would be James Flint, the pastry chef.

 

And tonight?  John Silver has a good feeling about tonight.  

 

***

 

“Don’t even  _ think _ about stealing food off the plates,” Billy, the head waiter, tells him as he’s training on his first day.  “You only eat what’s served at four o’clock family meal. See that old dude over there?” He gestures toward a Sous Chef with greasy grey hair and a stained apron.  “That’s Randall. If you even pilfer a potato, he’ll know. He has a sixth sense or something.”

 

Silver takes in the bloodshot eyes of the man swaying on his feet like he’s standing on the deck of a rocking ship, instead of unmoving hard cement.  “More likely he’s just stoned and paranoid.”

 

Billy shrugs.  “Either way, no sticky fingers, or you’ll be fired.”  And Silver thinks he’ll have no trouble following this rule, until they pass the pantry and end up at the dessert station.

 

Silver’s mouth starts to water, but it’s not because of the sweets.

 

In front of him stands the sexiest mother fucker he’s ever laid eyes on.  Soft looking auburn locks are swept back from his forehead by a black bandana.  The sleeves of his double-breasted jacket are rolled up above his elbows, showcasing sun-kissed forearms that bear so many freckles they look like they’ve been dusted with cinnamon.  The man is bustling around his station, snatching flour and sugar, bending down to grab stainless steel bowls and a wooden rolling pin, his houndstooth pants stretching over thick thighs.  

 

“Who’s he?” Silver asks, voice several octaves deeper than it was when they toured the grill.  

 

But Billy doesn’t notice; he’s too busy shooting daggers at the pastry chef with his eyes while the man studiously ignores both of them.  “That’s James Flint. Don’t bother getting to know him. He’s a dickhead.”

 

John thinks he sees the corner of Flint's mouth raise a fraction of an inch, but Billy is hustling him onto the dining floor too quick to be sure.  “What makes him a dick?” John asks as the kitchen doors swing shut behind them. 

 

“He’s worked here ten years, back before this place was even called  _ Max’s _ .  But he doesn’t know any of our names.  The maitre d’ once told him I’d personally handle all the dessert runs at a wedding we were hosting, and the asshole looks Hal Gates straight in the face and says ‘ _ Who the fuck is Billy? _ ’  I was standing right there!  We’d worked together for six years!”  

 

Silver bites his lip to keep from laughing at Billy’s outrage.  “Seriously, ignore him like he ignores the rest of us. He doesn’t like anyone, and he can go fuck himself.”  Now  _ that’s _ an image John’s going to store away for solo time tonight. 

 

“He’s going to like me,” John vows with a sharp smile.

 

Billy’s blonde eyebrows jump to his hairline.  “And how the fuck do you think you’ll manage to make that happen?”

 

John shrugs.  “I’m a hard man not to like.”

 

***

 

It takes four full weeks of John’s killer smiles and cheery ‘ _ good mornings’ _ for Flint to even look up from the bread dough he’s kneading.  Silver is so surprised he trips over his own feet and nearly face plants into the soup station.  Flint grunts out a small laugh, and goes back to punching the dough like he wishes it were John’s face connecting with his knuckles. 

 

Progress.

 

***

 

By the second month Flint is grumping out a greeting in answer to John’s daily salutations, and by month three the entire waitstaff has nicknamed him the pastry whisperer.

 

“What’s that you’re making?”

 

“You can’t eat it,” James commands, never looking up from the tan sauce he’s methodically stirring.  “It’s peanut butter glacé.” 

 

“Not even a little lick?  For me?” John seductively leans across the counter, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

 

“Fuck off you little shit.”  

 

***

 

Month four finds Flint explaining some of his recipes to Silver, who listens attentively because the shape of James’ mouth when it moves  _ does _ things to him.  In month five Flint allows Silver to help him brown the sugar on his signature coffee creme brûlée.

 

John flicks on the mini blow torch.  “Wish I was  _ blowing _ something else.”  He winks at James, whose ears turn as red as his hair.  

 

Progress.

 

***

 

John starts coming to work earlier and earlier during month six. Flint gets to work before the sun rises to start the bread and desserts and get them into the cooler, and he’s out at three o’clock, so if Silver wants to monopolize his time it needs to be early.  

 

“Are you trying to usurp Billy’s position as head waiter?” James jokes on the third morning Silver rolls in early.  John heads straight to the industrial sized coffee maker and brews an extra strong pot. It’s a Friday, and weekend shifts always creep into the wee morning hours, but on Friday’s Flint usually strips off his apron and stays for family meal, sharing a dessert with the staff.  

 

Silver brings him a cup of steaming black coffee and sets up a stand, stacking trays lined with linen napkins so they’re ready for lunch service.  “No one could outshine the golden boy,” he replies. 

 

Flint laughs, the sound making Silver’s stomach flip.  “Maybe for Gates,” he allows. “He loves Billy like a son.”

 

Silver turns on the charm.  “And who do you love?”

 

“I love peace and quiet, neither of which I’ve had since you started working here.”

 

John makes a rude sound with his mouth.

 

“Fuck me,” Flint curses, and for a moment Silver thinks it’s a request, but then he notices James scowling at the chocolate sauce he’s heating over a double broiler.  

 

“What’s the matter?” He asks, stepping behind the counter and checking the contents of the glass bowl.

 

“It’s dull,” James hisses, scraping the sides of the bowl with a spatula. “I was going to use it as a glaze for raspberry truffles, but the quality is too low.  They’ll look like lumps of shit.” He dips his index finger into the bowl and hold it up, testing the glossiness under the bright fluorescent lights. 

 

John leans forward and wraps his lips around Flint’s finger to the second knuckle, swirling his tongue around the digit, sucking up all the chocolate and pulling off with an audible  _ pop _ .

 

Flint is staring at him, pupils blown and slack jawed, as Silver lets out a pornographic moan.  “Tastes amazing,” he supplies, then grabs his stack of trays and saunters out into the dining room to refill the salt shakers.  

 

“That little shit,” he heards Flint’s awed curse as he the exits the kitchen, wet hand dropping to grope the erection tenting his checkered pants.  

 

John smiles to himself as rich dark chocolate melts in his mouth.  Yeah, tonight is going to be a  _ good _ night.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! [I'm Jamie! ](http://jmeelee.tumblr.com/)


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